This is Nowhere
by Anti-canon
Summary: Shameless Fusion- When Stiles' mother left, his father fell apart and he was left to take care of his four younger siblings. To try and make ends meet he uses his talent for magic and the support of his community. Basically- an excuse to combine my massive Stiles and Fiona feels into one big angst fest.


**A/N: I've tried, clearly without success, for almost a year now to convince myself not to write this AU, but I just couldn't hold it back. Shameless and Teen Wolf give me SOOO many feels and bringing them together was just too great a temptation.**

**Anyways! Instead of working with chapters, I decided to just make it a series of one-shots, just touching on all the different things that I wanted to touch on... So ya, watch for those :P**

**Title stolen from This is Nowhere by The Airborne Toxic Event**

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It's nearing seven, just about time to close up shop. Deaton left a good hour ago, leaving you here just in case someone showed up, though rarely anyone came in this late. Most orders, in fact, were to be delivered personally, anyone seen entering a "hoo-doo" shop sure to be a social pariah as word traveled round the city. Supernaturals are still regarded as outcasts, dangerous, desperate sorts of people, when they're seen as people at all. Witches, shamans, druids- they have it worst because in the public's opinion, it's a life they chose, turning against what's natural.

You don't care, never were much of one for what others had to say about you, about your family. They called you shameless, reckless, uncontrolled, and irresponsible. But they don't know, all those holier-than-thou, pretentious politicians and people of God, they never led a life like yours. Holed up in their mini-mansions, adorned with gold and jewels, eating dinners of caviar and truffles worth more than your house, they see nothing of reality.

Here in the grime of the city, away from all their gleaming skyscrapers and gentrification, where the real people live, where the monsters and the ghosts and the things you've never heard of aren't topics of fiery conversation- they're struggling neighbors, ruthless thugs, just another hundred people trying to get out or get ahead. You, you were born with a gift for magic, and in the kind of world that you were born in, you're worse than stupid- careless, pretentious, cold- if you don't use what you were given to make sure that you're kept off the streets, kept full, kept kind and decent.

When you were just twelve you took up an apprenticeship with the local witch-doctor, Deaton, but you made sure to let him know, you would only practice the magics that were clean. You had too many people relying on you to be messing with debts and hearts and souls. Now, eleven years later, here you are, manning the shop, responsible for all manner of charms and talismans and rituals, having developed your own customer base, if a meager one. Work's been slow, the pay has nearly trickled to a stop, and you know you should be jumping at the opportunity to stay another hour, book another client, but you're tired and sore and you just want to go home and see the kids.

You've still got about twenty minutes before you're supposed to shut off the sign and lock up the gate, but you're already flicking off lights in the back, gathering up your pack, managing the till, and you think you'll be fine to head out early when the bell above the door rings and you whip around to see who entered. Fumbling under the glass case housing gems and trinkets, separating the workspace from the store, you grip the wooden baseball bat hung beneath, and run your fingers along the runes carved deep along its length. You never know exactly what kind of person you're going to get, what it is they're looking for, and without Deaton to deal with the more… volatile clients, you're not eager to cross someone asking for dark arts you can't- won't supply.

The man that clears the shelves, and boy is he the very definition of _man, _looks more like he belongs in an ad for Abercrombie and Fitch, than skulking around your shop. Once he sees you, he puts a swagger in his step and flashes a saccharine smile that makes you bristle with anger. He's probably some kind of arrogant playboy, slumming it to buy himself a spell for an ample endowment, or something decidedly more sinister- like a poison to rush along his inheritance. You go ahead and bring the bat up, setting it gently down on the counter, but keeping your grip firm, and return his smirk with a scowl.

Instead of putting him off, like the bat usually does for overconfident one percenters, it just makes the fucking prick chuckle- coming straight up to rest his elbows across from it, dropping a hand so that his fingers can trace the bright swirls of color inked into your skin. The second he touches you, you can feel it, like a foreign musk on the back of your tongue, and you know that he is _other. _"Now, now. There's no need for theatrics, so let's drop the act. We're both some kind of 'big bad', but I'm at a distinct advantage of knowing you're in the witch family, whereas I'm guessing you haven't guessed what _I _am yet." He continues to follow the patterns up all the way from your wrist to the crease of your elbow, his slight buck teeth coming out to play with his lower lip as he looks at you from beneath his lashes.

"Whatever it is you're looking for, I'm sure you can find it elsewhere. There's dozens of shops like mine in the city, and we're just getting ready to close." You try not to flinch, not to pull away or cringe, not to give him the satisfaction. You want to rear back and swing the bat, want to invoke any one of the protective charms laid into your skin, but always, always you have to remember that the only thing that matters is making it out alive, making it home to them.

The man takes a step back, straightening out to his full height before taking a sweeping glance around the room. "You don't even know what I want yet. How do you know I didn't pick you out specifically?" He shoves his hands into the pockets of his too-tight jeans and glares you down, whatever he is, clearly predatory. "I just need a simple, little draught, something I'm sure even your shoddy skills can manufacture." He smirks at the sleeves covering both your arms, at the patterns you spent years designing, in-laying, and enchanting yourself.

"Come back when Deaton's here then, if you're so convinced my hands aren't practiced enough." It doesn't come out as a suggestion and you sling your pack over your shoulder, white-knuckling the bat as you step out from behind the counter. He quirks his eyebrow and smiles amusedly, but gives you a wide berth as you pass him by, heading towards the door. "If you want magic, you want it done right, and no matter how "skillfully" I put your potion together, if I'm putting hostility into it, things aren't going to go well." You head straight outside, not bothering to look behind you and see if he's following, just holding the door open once you get there. It takes a few, tense moments, but eventually he comes waltzing back out of the store, unreadable expression on his face.

"I think I like you." Instead of fake and sugary sweet like the rest of his actions tonight, he sounds genuinely surprised by this and catches your eyes, staring into them intently. "I _will _be coming back." With one last, lingering look, he heads off across the street, climbing into a sleek, black Camaro and peeling away from the curb.

Your pulse is thundering, the beat visibly pulsing across your neck, somewhat from fear, a little bit from… something else.

Once you finally get home, you feel as though you could sleep for days.

The lights are on inside, toys, shoes, and the occasional soda or beer can are strewn across the lawn. Your own talismans and charms hang from every window, windchimes strung with crystals and feathers and runes, spaced across the porch, making sure to keep the house protected. You can hear a general ruckus going on inside and from the sidewalk it looks like absolute chaos- your half of the duplex dirty, dilapidated, down to its last leg, but you finally feel a sense of calm wash over you as you open the chain-link gate and walk up the steps, gathering the more expensive things along the way to deposit on the porch.

Turning the key in the lock, you make sure to put a smile on your face, and it's not too hard when you can hear the girls screeching at the little ones inside. The door sticks the first two times you try and open it, but once you throw your shoulder into the movement, it pops open. Looking across the living room and into the kitchen, you can see all five of them, laughing and screaming, and for the moment, happy.

"Stiles!" Isaac is the first one to notice you, your little lamb, and maybe (secretly) your favorite. His eyes are bright and his grin is wide as he comes tearing across the room, arms thrown wide, latching around your legs. He's small for his age, and you have the notion that he's going to be a late bloomer- most Stilinski men are, and you have a feeling, a strong, steadfast feeling, that, like you, he's actually John's. His curly, sandy blonde hair is only a few shades lighter than your brown, and though he has clear blue eyes, you're proud to have discovered a small handful of moles across his back.

You bend down to pick him up and bury your face in his throat, making gobbling motions and sounds and grinning happily when he starts to laugh and squirm. Isaac is the middle child, not including yourself, which you never let yourself do these days, and he's sweet and quiet and gentle, though once you're out of his good graces, you're out of them for good; the evidence of which just came to light a few months ago, when he came to softly call you daddy, only when the two of you were alone. And no matter how many stories you tell him about how John was before, he insists that you're the only one who matters.

"Kiss-ass." You turn your head, rearranging Isaac to rest on your hip, and stare down Jackson, knowing it was him since Scott still refuses to speak.

"Language Jackson- I won't ask twice." He's only four years older than Isaac, but since he just entered middle school, he's started to think he's pretty hot shit. Undoubtedly he's from a different father than the rest of you, just like Scott with his dark skin and hair. His features are square and chiseled, unlike the delicate noses and cheekbones the rest of you have. You think that he's started to notice and you know that you'll have to have that conversation with him soon, but so far, it's never felt like the _right_ time.

You carry Isaac into the kitchen, giving him a soft kiss on the cheek before sitting him down and ignoring Jackson's eye roll to head over to the stove. Allison and Erica are standing on either side, one looking over a skillet of ground beef and the other absently stirring macaroni noodles. "How was everyone today?" You place a hand on each of their shoulders and give a light squeeze, wishing they had been able to spend their afternoon doing whatever the hell it is that teenagers do, instead of covering your ass with the kids.

"Jackson was a little shit as per usual and-" Allison jabbed Erica in the ribs before she could go on, shooting her a look before turning to give you a small smile, coming out weaker than she had probably intended.

"Fine, everything was fine. The boys were a little rowdy… but at least _they_ followed the rules." The sentence came out pointed, clearly not for you, and though you knew it wasn't the right thing to do, you decided to just let it go for the moment.

"Well, you're all still alive, still have four limbs and both eyes, I consider this a success." Jackson snickers from behind you, shoulders shaking when you whip around to catch one of his rare slip-ups. He liked to pretend he couldn't stand all of you, but most the time it was just an act. "Ah, there you are! Haven't seen my baby brother around for quite a while. Where _do _you keep him hidden?" You ruffle his hair as you walk by, and he gives you a begrudging smile, leaning into the touch for just a second.

You share the moment with him before coming over to crouch in front of Scott's booster seat and kiss him on his forehead. He goes cross-eyed following the movement, looking as though he's going to be stuck like that for a moment, before they come back into focus and a goofy smile breaks loose across his face. "Hey there buddy, and how was your day?" Scott just continues to smile and ducks his head, allowing a small shrug when you continue to wait. He can talk, you _know _he can, but he's simply refused ever since Becca left, when he wasn't even two years old. If you had the money, you'd take him to some kind of specialist, make sure that there's not something serious going on. As it is, he has a rewards chart on the side of the fridge- every time he talks to someone he gets a new sheet of stickers. If it was good enough to potty train, it's good enough for this.

You stand up slowly, groaning as you crack your back. "I'm gonna take a quick shower and then be right down. Girls- you got dinner covered?" Erica throws you a thumbs up, not bothering to stop whispering and holding back laughs with Allison, and you shake your head, actually proud of the fact that they can still act their age a lot of the time. You, on the other hand, as you walk up the stairs, depositing your sack and your clothes in the broom closet you call a room, feel like you're forty at least- joints creaking, bone tired even if it's only eight thirty. You should probably get out and run, try eating healthier, or just get out every once in a while, but you just strip down and wrap a towel around your waist, stepping next door into the bathroom. You can't leave them on their own- even for just a night…. Won't leave them.

Can't.

Dropping the towel around your waist, you grab the egg timer on the sink and set it for eight minutes, knowing the kids still have to shower before bed and that hot water doesn't last long here. When you step under the stream, you can't help letting out a long moan as the heat starts to seep into your stiff muscles, relaxing them as far as they'll go. You turn in slow circles, making sure to get every inch of skin, to try and wash the stress from every fearful moment of the day, and there were many. Your mind's just starting to quiet, all your nervous energy from the past twelve hours washing down the drain when you hear a crash downstairs accompanied by sporadic cries of "JOHN!" and "Stiles!" You close your eyes, breathe deeply, fight back the tears of frustration for just five seconds before shutting off the water and grabbing your towel.

When you appear at the top of the stairs you can see your dad collapsed face down in the middle of the kitchen, beer still upright in his hand, clothes and face beyond filthy. You run shaky hands across your hair, twisting your lips and rolling your shoulders before you head down, giving a small smile to the kids before you crouch down beside him, pulling at one of his arms and getting him to roll over, trying to get his limp form to sit up. "C'mon John, you gotta work with me here." You change your stance, gripping him around his chest from behind, trying to haul him up as you stand, fighting back the urge to gag at the overwhelming, sour stench of alcohol, puke, and piss.

"She's gone! Left me and took m'heart with 'er." His head lolls along your shoulder and he looks up into your eyes, his own brimming with tears and a kind of hurt that nothing in this world can quell. "Din't want you kids though, said they'd shlow her down."

"I know, John, I know." You half walk, half drag him over to the couch, trying to make him keep his voice down, because that might be the reality that you have to live with, each and every day, but the boys shouldn't have to know that. Hell, Erica and Allison shouldn't have to either, though they're old enough to remember Becca leaving more than once in their lifetime. You get him settled on the sofa, take the beer from his hand, and wait, sitting on the coffee table, until he passes out. It never does take long once he's near the house.

He used to be a cop, used to be the sheriff for God's sake. You remember, for those few golden years when everything worked, when it was just you and them, and you were a functioning family. But it didn't last, couldn't when she relapsed, starting cheating on John, started stealing from him to get a fix, dropped out five more kids, whether from him or from someone else, you'll never know. Every couple years she'd try to get clean, get his hopes up that she was better, but the longest she ever lasted was four months, and every time, it broke him a little bit more, until there was just nothing left. The kids are more yours than they ever were his or hers, and you're determined to do right by them. Just because they were born into this shitty situation, didn't mean they'd have to be stuck in it forever.

Quietly, you run a hand through his hair before getting up, tossing a blanket over him, and heading back into the kitchen. "Let's eat."

You're not sure how you got here, what trick Lydia and the girls pulled to convince you that this was a good idea, but standing in the middle of the dance floor, half drunk, full sure that you're being felt up, you feel alive like you haven't in a long time.

Don't misinterpret that, you love the kids, would gladly do this all over if you had the choice again, but there are things that you still miss, things that you hunger for when they're not around. Writhing in a throng of sweaty, horny, blissed-out twenty-something's, you feel as though you've stepped into a place you were always meant to end up in, but never had the time for. Your shirt is too tight, your pants are too loose, and your last drink was watered down, but the music thrums through your veins like live wires and for once there's no room in your head for worry.

You lost Lydia at the bar some time ago, disinterested in watching her grab the attention of every man worth having in the whole club, but strangely proud to be able to point her out and say that you were her best friend. In any case, that really wasn't why you were here, at least not primarily, and you were happy to have all the eyes in the room turned somewhere else so that you could just _be. _For once you didn't have to put up a front- didn't have to make sure to behave in front of the kids, didn't have to be brave in the shop, didn't have to be carefully kept together in the quiet of your own room.

You're a _mess, _and here you can revel in it. Every few seconds you'll let slip a small surge of power, making the room hotter, making the air thicker, making the music louder, making the light sharper, making the musk stronger. It manifests itself as dark wisps of smoke and glowing tendrils of light, leaping from the tips of your fingers. If anyone sees, they don't care, a few even growing hungry at the sight of it, and you're happy to let them drink it in, to feed into the fetish for just one night.

You get lost in it all, for how long you're not sure- turning and turning until the room, the people, the world is just a big blur. You only come down a little when one man, in particular, catches your eye, staring at you from across the room with a kind of intensity that sends shivers down your back. He's a little out of place here, a real silver fox, but running in parallel with your daddy issues, you've got a real chub for DILF's and you beckon him over, smiling in a way you know makes you look slutty. He hesitates for a full minute before making his way over, never taking his eyes off you, shouldering his way across the floor.

Once he's close enough, you move up into his space, grind down across his hip, let out a few stray sparks of power when your fingers tease across his lower back. His eyes shutter when you do and he lets out a small groan, instantly growing harder against your leg. It makes you smile, something filthy and full of promise, and he skirts a hand across your ribs, leaning in to place his lips to your ear, telling you to close your eyes. It's all too simple to comply, opening your mouth, ready to do something you'll only publicly regret come morning, thrilling when you feel something thin and cold trace across your skin. You don't know what it is, but you're ready for it, waiting for it, when you feel claws dig into your shoulder and you are flung back, pain lancing through your torso.

A loud roar fills the room and booms over the music as you fall to the floor, cracking your head against the cement and feeling immediately nauseous. The lights, the fog, the music all swim around you, making you dizzy and disoriented. You try to call out for help, or just ask what the hell just happened, but you're not sure if the words are translating from your brain to your tongue.

It feel like you float in this ether for a small eternity, but eventually, a Lydia-shaped mass comes into view and you can feel her cradle your head for a moment before forcing you to your feet with her freakish strength and practically carrying you to the restrooms. You can hear her shout and a brief scuffle as the room clears before freezing water is thrown across your face and suddenly everything is sharply forced back into focus. "Oww, ow, fuckity ow!"

You grip at your head and go to lean back before a sharp, burning pain lances across your ribs and you shoot back up. "You probably won't want to do that." Lydia shoots you a glare, a little harsh since you just got assaulted, you think, but that's just the way she is. "The cut's not deep, luckily, but it'll hurt like a bitch until we close it up and get you some meds."

"Whaa-? What cut?" You blink hard, several times, before looking down and noticing, for the first time, the red that has bloomed across your shirt. Groaning, you peel back the wet fabric and Lydia swoops in next to you, setting her purse next to the counter and rifling through it. It's only a clasp, but you've enchanted nearly every bag she owns and you know that she has enough supplies in there to last a nuclear winter.

"I swear Stiles, I don't know how you're still alive. How stupid are you?" She brandishes a pack of disinfectant wipes as well as a small needle and what you hope is medical grade thread. Lydia's smart, smarter than any person you've ever met, and though she doesn't have a college degree, lives next door, and prefers to use most of her wits for nefarious purposes, you trust her with your life.

She's just cleaned you off and is about to set in on the stitches when the bathroom door bangs open, one of its hinges busting, and you double over as your head rings with the sound. "_Ohmygodwhywiththedoor_?!"

Lydia's just about to jump down the guy's throat that busted in, but he brushes her aside and comes to stand directly in front of you, grabbing your shoulders. You can feel him only barely restraining the urge to pick you up and shake you. "A hunter? Really? I thought you were smarter than that." Your ears perk to attention as you recognize the voice, and slowly, slowly, you bring your gaze up to lock eyes with the man from the store.

"Look, if you've come to finish the job, just hurry up and do it." You try to keep your pulse from racing, from giving him the satisfaction of knowing how terrified you are, how much you want to actually beg for your life.

"What?" His fingers dig deeper into your muscles and you wince, letting out a small hiss of pain. But that's all he does. As you continue to stare at him, his frown deepens and his brows furrow, but there's something almost like concern in his eyes and it's kind of freaking you out. "Why would I want to kill you after I just tried to save you?" The moment it's out, your brain short circuits and a tense silence starts to fill the room. With each passing moment his eyes start to change hue, the sea-foam green growing murky and dark as red fills in the iris. Hair sprouts across his jaw and his ears elongate to points, his breathing heavy. He still looks at you with that same apprehension, but now it has meaning.

Your mouth gapes open and closed as you search for something to say. It never does come.


End file.
